Because.... why not?

Four day weekends are so my friend. By the time Saturday rolls around, you mostly have your work done and you don't have to rush around like a usual Saturday because you've already had two days off. Four day weekends should happen more often, if you ask me.

Alas, no one really asks me, so they don't happen very often. Still, we did our best to make it good. Friday night, Luke's cousin spent the night. We were a little (okay, a LOT) unsure of how this would go, worrying that we'd end up driving her back to grandma's house at 3AM. Fortunately, she adapted and fit right into our little circus without so much as a sniffle or a homesick word at all. The kids had so, so much fun. Grandma came to get her Saturday morning, after a delicious breakfast of make your own crepes. After she left, we decided to show our support for Small Business Saturday by heading to one of our favorite local stores (Lifestyles). I love, love this store because they have the neatest things, plus even though it's a store filled to the brim with expensive breakables, they never, ever act terrified when you walk in with kids, instead they're super welcoming and even have a little play area set up for kids. How great is that? Anyway, Shane picked up a couple of presents and Luke and I picked out a bag of Jelly Belly's. On the way home, we drove past a miniature golf course. Luke and Tommy were both in awe of the giant dragon and Luke asked if we could go. My knee-jerk reaction was, of course, to say, "No, not today." Because it was almost Tommy's nap time. Because I had laundry to fold. Because I wanted to get home and put on my yoga pants.

But seriously, those are just reasons and none of them very good, so as we drove past, I turned to Shane and said, "Do you think that counts as a small business?" He said, "Do you see any cops before I do a u-turn?" We pulled in the parking lot and Luke said, "Wait. Where are we?" His excitement at realizing that yes, we WERE going to go mini golfing today was totally worth it.

We were the only people golfing on this Thanksgiving weekend.

Luke couldn't quite hold his club the right way and Tommy threw his ball every single time. We never had more than two putts on any hole because Tommy would helpfully collect and hand us all our balls back as soon as he could reach them.

They both attempted to climb the dragon.

And then because we were already there, we figured we might as well stay for pizza.

Of course, once you have pizza, you pretty much have to play a few games of skeeball.

We missed Tommy's nap time. He fell asleep in the car and counted those fifteen minutes as his nap. Unfortunately, this made folding all that laundry a little more complicated, but I got it done.

When I asked Luke if he had fun, he said, "Oh, a LOT of fun!" That right there is enough to convince me that every now and then, we need to say, "Yes. Today."

Love Notes

On Luke's first day of preschool, I wrote a note and put it in his lunch bag. Feeling sad that unlike some kids, he'd have to stay four hours after preschool, I wrote a note on an index card telling him how I loved him and how I couldn't wait to hear all about his big day.

He can't read, of course. I was worried that he'd be too shy to ask someone to read it for him, but I was wrong. In the car that afternoon, he told me that he asked his teacher to read it and she did.

I kept sending him notes, but somedays, I'd be in a rush and forget. Somedays I'd be too tired at the end of the night to even think about it. One day, I picked him up early after a doctor's appointment and his extended care teacher told me how the notes I send are so sweet. She said every day after washing his hands, he retrieves his lunch bag and very shyly brings the note to her. She told me she reads it to him and he smiles. She said often times, he puts it in his pocket, then removes it during quiet time and looks at it. Once, she said, he kissed it and laid it next to his head. She said, "You can tell he really loves you."

I haven't missed a note since then. The other night, I asked Luke what he wanted me to pack in his lunch. He said, "A turkey and cheese sandwich, carrot sticks, and a note."

Always, buddy.

Linking up with Just Write

a working mom's grace

I try to stay out of the mommy wars debates because it’s just not worth it. As long as your child is fed, clothed, and happy, I don’t really care how you raise him or her. But there are certain issues that get to me. When someone states that they stay home because they don’t want someone else raising their kids, something inside my heart wrenches and I coil up like a snake ready to strike. Because it’s untrue. Because it’s not fair. Yes, someone else watches my children when I am at work, but my husband and I are the only ones raising our children. I am certain—hopeful and naïve, maybe—that this choice of words isn’t meant to hurt, isn’t meant to make those of us not fortunate enough to have the choice to stay home hurt so deeply, but it does and I often wish people would be more cognizant of their word choice because of course you want to stay home to raise your kids. That doesn't mean that I'm not raising mine.

Still, I’m mostly okay with wearing the (uncomfortable) shoes of a working mom, because I know my children are happy. But I worry about little things as they get older. Since he was six months old, Luke’s gone to an in-home sitter where he interacts with the children of other working parents. As far as he knows, everyone has a mommy or daddy who has to drop them off with someone else during the work day. Until he started preschool and I knew that it wouldn’t be the case. I’ve been waiting for him to notice that not all of his friends from preschool go to extended care before or after school.

Finally, he asked. “Mommy, my friend Cade’s mom picks him up after school every day as soon as school is over. Why?” I explained. Some mommies are very lucky and can pick their kids up right away, but some mommies, like me, aren’t able to do that because of work but I pick him up as soon as I get out of work. Then I cringed and waited for the guilt to wash over me, for his hurt to be evident.

Instead. “Oh. That’s too bad for them because you know what? After we leave preschool, we get to eat lunch in the cafeteria and then we watch a movie and then we get to play outside again!” Thank you, Luke, for your four year old grace, for knowing that I do the best I can at raising you and that when I can’t be there with you, all it means is that you get more time on the playground than other kids.

Linking up to Heather of the EOs Just Write

Oh Boys

I never envisioned myself as a mother with sons. Even in high school when we did the project where you pretend a bag of flour is a baby, I was excited when I drew the slip saying that my bag of flour was a girl. I didn't even want boy flour.




But now? The only girl I've birthed weighed five pounds and was later made into cookies. And the boys I've birthed have caused me to say things I've never imagined. Like, "Stop hitting your brother with that rolled up yoga mat. No, I don't care if he's laughing, that doesn't mean you keep hitting him." or "Keep your hands on your own parts. I SAID ON YOUR OWN PARTS." or "Yes, burping is funny, but if you keep trying to do it, you're going to injure yourself." or my personal favorite, "If you want to talk about things that happen in the bathroom, you may go sit in the bathroom and talk to the mirror."
What I really never imagined, though, was how much I'd love this, how much they'd complete me. How could I have ever thought that I didn't want them?

Better From Above

Today was one of those days where I was pulling into the sitter's driveway, both boys were standing in her front window, grinning and waving enthusiastically. My heart soared, so proud to call them mine, so happy to rush inside and scoop them up in my arms. Then I got inside and heard how one got two time outs for hair pulling, while the other jumped on my back without warning me first, so that I [embarrassingly] fell over, my legs knocked out from under me both literally and figuratively, and I wanted to get back in my car and just drive far, far away. Instead I smiled and nodded and apologized and slunk to the car, wiping away hot tears.

A few months ago, I was emailing with a co-worker about parenting. He confessed that he felt like he wasn't very good at this parenting thing. I confessed back that every single night, I pray to be a better parent and I feel like it never comes true. Maybe it isn't supposed to come true, I don't know. Maybe if we were all perfect, if our kids were always dressed well and clean and never ate candy at breakfast time, we'd become complacent. I question sometimes why Tommy has seizures and why Luke's worst behavior is always in front of other people and why Tommy lately thinks hair pulling is the best, most fun thing ever, but maybe it's like this to teach me to appreciate the little boy who didn't make a peep on a three hour airplane ride this summer, who most often sits through restaurant meals like an angel. To appreciate the fragility of life and the even littler boy who looked at his ridiculous crying mama, put his head on her shoulder and patted her back with the gentlest of touches. And maybe, just maybe, I'm not as bad as I think I am. Maybe someone bigger than me, someone better than me, knows I try to do my very best and that sometimes I fail and that's okay.
My friend's confession floored me, though, because he has five daughters. The oldest has lived in Heaven since she was 7 and he speaks of her with such pride (and how she must look down on him with pride of her own). His four younger girls are some of the most beautiful, well-rounded teenagers I've ever met. If ever anyone should be confident in parenting skills, it should be him.

But he isn't. And neither am I. And probably, neither are you. I wonder sometimes why my prayers aren't answered, why I don't feel confident, why on earth I've been entrusted to be so much for these two boys, but then, don't things always look better from above?

'Til The End of Time

My first night home from the hospital with Luke, I was so confident. He was sleeping well, nursing well, and didn't really cry at all. He was all settled in the bassinet next to our bed, swaddled and sleeping soundly. I remember clicking off the lamp and having a half-second to sigh at the joy of being back in my own bed before he started to WAIL. Honestly, I hadn't even put my head down on the pillow. I picked him up. He didn't want to nurse. He didn't want to snuggle in the bed with me. He just SCREAMED. I had sent Shane to sleep in the guest room, thinking that one of us should be rested in the morning (rookie mistake). He screamed and screamed and screamed. I tried rocking him, my newly post-partum body sore, hurting in places I'd never imagined, skin loose and unfamiliar. He screamed while I was rocking him. I tried putting him in the swing for the first time. In the dark, unfamiliar with the swing, I managed to hit his head on the swing. He screamed louder. I sobbed and wondered to myself if I was really cut out for this, only 48 hours into it and I was already a half step away from breaking my new baby. Finally, in a last ditch attempt, I started to sing to him. The only song I could remember in my tired haze, Hush Little Baby. He started to quiet, but still fussed until I held him tight my chest, walking, swaying, and singing. And walk, sway, and sing we did for hours, the same song on repeat over and over and over, until I was so tired that while (thankfully) standing next to the bed, my knees buckled and I collapsed from exhaustion. I didn't catch myself, but I reached out and gently deposited Luke on the bed before I hit the ground. At this point, obviously, I swallowed my pride and enlisted Shane's help.


I learned my lesson Tommy's first night home from the hospital and made sure that Shane was in the room with us. Except that as Tommy woke up at midnight, I whisked him into the bed, laid him next to me, and had him latched on and nursing before I even realized what happened, before I even fully came out of that dreamy sleep and realized that I had a newborn again. What a difference a kid makes, huh? Except that Tommy is the king of false advertising and the older he got, the worse his sleep became (and still is, thanks for the 3:30 wake up call, TOMMY) and so, hours of walking, swaying, and singing Hush Little Baby became my life again. I've learned more songs since then, but it's always struck me as the truest. Of course, we want to do what we can to make our kids happy, but none of us run out and buy them diamond rings. Yet, even if everything we've done falls apart, we'll still love them 'til the end of time and hope that they know that. I'm probably not ever going to buy my kids a billy goat, but I'll go to the ends of the earth to make them happy.

Sometimes when I'm standing in front of the room teaching, I find myself swaying gently from side to side. I stop and mentally admonish myself that my students must think I'm crazy, that they don't understand the motion that grips you when you become a mother, they don't understand that once you begin swaying, you never stop.

Easter Times Four

The last four Easters have been my very favorite. Easter is my favorite holiday because it's beautiful and meaningful and lacks the materialism and stress of Christmas.

We hid eggs for Luke for the first time ever. Watching his excitement this morning as he discovered each one was wonderful, truly magical. Life has been so good lately. The "traumatic threes" have gotten a little easier, Luke and Tommy have been interacting in so many sweet ways, and I just love it. Every little bit.

Real

I was typing up this post about something cute that Luke does every night, and then I stopped. Not because I don't want to share the cuteness, but because I just couldn't. Not right now.

Instead I want to tell you that three is hard. For most of his twos, we scoffed at the whole terrible two phase. We didn't see any of that. Not even really after his little brother was born. But then he got close to three, and I started hearing the phrase "three-nager," and I GOT IT. Oh, did I get it. Maybe a little too much, because sometimes I hear about other three year olds. About the cute things they do, of course, never the THREE things they do, and I start to think that maybe my child is flawed. Maybe I'm a bad mother. Maybe I'm spoiling him or being too hard on him or maybe I'm just not cut out to be a parent. All of these things go through my head, and you know, maybe they go through yours.

So, I'm going to be real. My child is love and sweet and light. Some times. But then there are times when my child defies me. When he flat out refuses to do what I ask him. When I have to put him in time out to keep from pushing him out the front door and pretending he's not mine. Once he picked up the word "dammit" and decided to scream it over and over. In the middle of a crowded restaurant. He wouldn't stop, until I carried him out of the restaurant with my hand clapped over his mouth. A walk of shame, in which I imagined everyone looking at Tommy and thinking, "Oh my. They bred AGAIN?" And at these times, I look at Tommy and think about how he's sweet all the time, but someday, he'll be THREE.
Sometimes Luke is too rough with Tommy. Often it's unintentional and just the result of a three year old loving too much, but there are times when it is intentional. Once at the park, he pushed Ivy. He gets shy at first in social settings and will try to mask his shyness by doing something crazy, like headbutting me. He doesn't do this all the time, but there are times when Tommy falls asleep in the car, and Luke will raise his voice to try and wake Tommy.

There is so much that he does RIGHT, but when he does wrong, I blame myself. I never think that he's a normal three year old, I wonder what I'm doing wrong. Maybe you have a three year old like mine, and so, I hope you read this and realize that no one has a perfect child. (Or if everyone does have a perfect child, please don't tell me.) And in a few days, I'll share the cute because it is OH SO CUTE, but for right now? I'm feeling good about admitting that sometimes, the cute is seriously lacking and I'm frantically wondering if there are gypsies in Indiana and whether or not they would like to buy my child.

Judge Not

Since becoming a mom almost three years ago, I've always felt the whole mommy wars was blown out of proportion. At least, whenever people would tell me they felt judged for formula feeding, I always had a hard time believing it. Truly, I've received so many rude comments and statements from co-workers and family members about breastfeeding (especially about nursing past a year) that I felt like I got more rudeness for NOT bottle feeding, plus you always hear about people being so rude to moms who nurse in public (although I've thankfully never felt this). At the very least, I knew that I'd never said anything to anyone about how they feed their kid, because hey, it's just important that babies are being fed, right? Granted, I'm guilty of thinking my way is the best simply because it works so well for me, but who isn't guilty of that at times? Sometimes I can be a total Judge-y McJudgerson, but I like to remember the adage that if you can't say something nice to someone, then maybe don't say anything at all.

Saturday night, Shane and I went out to dinner with Tommy, while Luke stayed home with Grandma. I ordered a caramel appletini because I'd just fed Tommy and knew that I was going to eat SO MUCH food that I wouldn't feel the alcohol, and Tommy certainly wouldn't. After I ordered, the waitress looked at me, looked at Tommy, and icily said, "So, you're obviously not breastfeeding, then" in the same tone of voice that one would say, "So, you're obviously the worst mother ever, then." Shane and I looked at each other and I had to collect my wits for a second before I said, "No, I am. My midwife said one drink is fine, thanks." And then it was like someone flipped a switch, and she happily chatted to me about how she heard that red wine and dark beers are good for nursing and how her sister is a home birth midwife and so on.

But really, what if I wasn't breastfeeding because I was on a medication that could be passed to the baby? Or what if I'd tried really hard and it didn't work out? Or what if I just didn't want to do it? How would she have made me feel, then? She made me feel judged, and I WAS breastfeeding. In a society where we're given so many mixed messages, is it so hard for women to just support each other? We're told that we need to be happy and glowing during pregnancy and that the second the baby is born, we must jump right back into our old jeans and have a perfect body. And if we don't, well, that's what plastic surgery is for. We're told that strong, independent women work outside of the home so if you choose to stay home, you're letting women everywhere down, yet we're also made to feel that if we work outside of the home, we're letting someone else raise our children and we're failing as a mom.
There are so many mixed messages that come at women, that come at moms, that it's not easy. The least we can do for each other is smile at another mom, tell her her baby is beautiful, and that she's doing a great job. Don't worry about if she's going back to work or if she's giving her baby breast or bottle, just let her know that she's doing the best job possible, because you know what? She probably is, but she probably doesn't think it, and even if she doesn't believe you... you'll probably make her day.

And in the meantime? Just let me drink my martini in peace!

This Love

Sometimes I ask Luke crazy questions like, "Is your mommy the prettiest person ever?" or "What does it mean when I say I love you?" And sometimes I get ridiculous answers like, "Mommy is a pretty man," but sometimes I get answers like, "I love you means happy, mama."

The other night as we were driving home, I told Shane what I thought love was. Because really, how DO you describe love? But then I turned around to the two sleeping boys in my backseat, and oh. I described it.

Do you remember when you were a child, and you'd be driving home with your parents at night? Maybe they'd have the radio on or maybe they'd be talking softly, but you'd be tucked safely into your seat, drowsily watching the lights flash by. And you felt so SAFE, like safer than you've ever felt in your entire life--safer than you'll ever feel as an adult. You knew that you were protected and you were going home, and you knew that if you fell asleep in the car, your dad would carry you inside.
THAT is what I love you means.

Double Vision

My new favorite thing is matching outfits


And I will dress them in them until they're old enough to say, ENOUGH, MOM.



A long time ago, when I was two seconds pregnant, one of my best friends told me this:
"isn't it hard to believe that before you know it, you'll be a family
of four and you won't even remember what it feels like to be a family
of three? Its true, I swear."

And I saved the email forever because it did scare me. I was afraid I'd miss it being the three of us, but she was right. I feel like I've always had two kids, two carseats, two sweet faces to kiss, two sweet heads to smell, the dreams of two boys sitting on Santa's lap, a big brother and a little brother, and two sweet boys to dress in matching outfits.

Many Faces

I always tell Luke that I love his face. While I mean that in the simplest of manners, in that I love every part of him, including his face, I also mean that I love his faces. From the day he was born, he's been full of expression, from the early grumpy old man looks to his first smile when we learned that he had DIMPLES, I've been loving it from day one.

As he grows, so do his expressions, and the ever changing myriad of Luke faces make me smile.
There's the intense stare, which I rather think resembles a Buckingham Palace Guard.

There's the sleepy-faced baby boy, this face usually followed by a "night night."

There's the playful face, often accompanied with running or yelling.


There's the happy face, where you just know that he's glad you're there.


The intent face, when nothing else matters but the task at hand.


And my favorite, absolute favorite, the safe face. The one that tells me that he knows that he is loved and protected. The one that we should all be lucky to make every once in awhile.


Photos by Beth of Beth Fletcher Photography